A Foretaste of Autumn 55 



me until now, and now my ears catch faint, 

 far-off sounds, as if I heard in the distance 

 Autumn's light footsteps. Mere fancy counts 

 for nothing now. It is not one sound sug- 

 gesting another, but the real thing. The 

 thrushes of the early morning have long 

 been silent, the catbirds are not complaining, 

 the wood peewee is even too busy just now 

 to sing, and so it would be silent here were 

 there not noisy nuthatches overhead. They 

 are climbing over the rough bark, and as 

 they peep into the innumerable crannies 

 they are chattering incessantly. This is a 

 wholesome autumn sound, heard often when 

 its only accompaniment is the dropping of 

 dead leaves ; and yet this August day it over- 

 tops all other sounds save the rapid rush of 

 water over the pebbles and boulders in the 

 bed of the brook. We must close our eyes 

 to realize the full significance of these autumn 

 notes of resident birds. The landscape must 

 rest on our memory, and not upon the retina. 

 That querulous refrain belongs to drearier 

 days than these, even to November and its 

 fogs and pitiless rains. It is an all-pervading 

 sound then, and fits well with the surround- 

 ings, and the August sunshine to-day does 



